Poetry - Issue 2
Not the Sum of Our Sadness
We are not the sum of our sadness, all the horrible things our minds and bodies
remember.
We are not the cracks in our hearts that seem to spread like breaking glass after
being beaten time and again.
We are not nothings and forgotten pieces of futures that have been swept
away.
We are not weak when tears are the only way to show what something makes
us feel, when words are not enough to impart what our souls are trying to
convey.
We are all of us broken.
But we are more, if we choose to be.
remember.
We are not the cracks in our hearts that seem to spread like breaking glass after
being beaten time and again.
We are not nothings and forgotten pieces of futures that have been swept
away.
We are not weak when tears are the only way to show what something makes
us feel, when words are not enough to impart what our souls are trying to
convey.
We are all of us broken.
But we are more, if we choose to be.
Two Sides; Me
I am weak
A huddled mass of dark clothes and tear stains
Sobs between each heartbeat
Every intake of breath a reminder how deep each trauma lies
Wanting only to know that someone desires to scoop me into arms that are
warm
No lies woven into their threads
Just one heart protecting another
Safe
I am strong
A warrior with honed blades and sharp eyes
Scars aplenty on toned flesh
No battle too bloody or too long to fight for the worthy, the innocent
Death is an inevitable friend, no fear stands between us
My back is bared to take the lashes that pure hearts do not heal from
I am not a savior
I only want to save
A huddled mass of dark clothes and tear stains
Sobs between each heartbeat
Every intake of breath a reminder how deep each trauma lies
Wanting only to know that someone desires to scoop me into arms that are
warm
No lies woven into their threads
Just one heart protecting another
Safe
I am strong
A warrior with honed blades and sharp eyes
Scars aplenty on toned flesh
No battle too bloody or too long to fight for the worthy, the innocent
Death is an inevitable friend, no fear stands between us
My back is bared to take the lashes that pure hearts do not heal from
I am not a savior
I only want to save
DMG Byrnes is an author with a reading addiction. She blogs every Wednesday at dmgbyrnes.com and also reviews books. Currently she’s working on short stories and a full-length novel.
The Blue Helianthus
Ripping and tearing through a field of sorrow
You plant sunflower seeds of past regrets
Nothing grows in dead meadows, but in my cave
the roses turn towards the sun that is you
Bring us threads, and keep mending
before we lose the parts
we had in common
You plant sunflower seeds of past regrets
Nothing grows in dead meadows, but in my cave
the roses turn towards the sun that is you
Bring us threads, and keep mending
before we lose the parts
we had in common
Tobias Haglund is from Stockholm, Sweden. He's one of five editors of Literally Stories. His work has been featured in various Swedish and English magazines.
Abandoned Lot Diamond
Forget what I said before:
We’re just two dead kids dreaming baseball fields
Dragged drugged feet and three cheap beers
Pour one for a lost ball
One for wild weeds and twobyfours
Never mind all my excusing
of losing sleep and sneaking
redblind on fighting wired nights
Decide what you’re gambling, we’re
dice playing God at university
Whatever you thought I meant
Is draingutter forgotten
Gold turned to lead, breath, sweat
Pour one for a bad plan:
A baseball bat, a car, and you.
We’re just two dead kids dreaming baseball fields
Dragged drugged feet and three cheap beers
Pour one for a lost ball
One for wild weeds and twobyfours
Never mind all my excusing
of losing sleep and sneaking
redblind on fighting wired nights
Decide what you’re gambling, we’re
dice playing God at university
Whatever you thought I meant
Is draingutter forgotten
Gold turned to lead, breath, sweat
Pour one for a bad plan:
A baseball bat, a car, and you.
Jiango à la Plage
The summer tide at 8:35 pm
Now the club’s doors open
Now the people’s mouths open,
hundreds of mouths to sound words of excitement, knowingness
smug hope.
I’ve read reviews. He’s supposed to be good.
They are well dressed, in line, moving forward, finding seats,
checking watches.
Anticipation has a music of its own,
a hiss that fills every ear with a whisper of the future.
Now there is a stage, pregnant with expectation
and slowly filling with absence.
No instrument.
No player.
The well dressed people decide to leave.
had not yet lost the gentle warmth of the day.
She sat cross legged, barefoot in the embrace of salt and foam
head turned towards the sheer heat of each note he played.
Every chord burned for her.
The waves whispered as she listened.
She was there for him each night.
Not tonight.
Now the club’s doors open
Now the people’s mouths open,
hundreds of mouths to sound words of excitement, knowingness
smug hope.
I’ve read reviews. He’s supposed to be good.
They are well dressed, in line, moving forward, finding seats,
checking watches.
Anticipation has a music of its own,
a hiss that fills every ear with a whisper of the future.
Now there is a stage, pregnant with expectation
and slowly filling with absence.
No instrument.
No player.
The well dressed people decide to leave.
had not yet lost the gentle warmth of the day.
She sat cross legged, barefoot in the embrace of salt and foam
head turned towards the sheer heat of each note he played.
Every chord burned for her.
The waves whispered as she listened.
She was there for him each night.
Not tonight.
Early
break my character bundle me back into forget
fulness
waking it’s the first day (always) and you realize me the need to
only every other word
breathe
(some obligations fill my lungs with you or tar) and
darling tuck me in pour me out
break my fast kiss me
there’s something morning in your dress
two lungs two suns one rise one me one you
fulness
waking it’s the first day (always) and you realize me the need to
only every other word
breathe
(some obligations fill my lungs with you or tar) and
darling tuck me in pour me out
break my fast kiss me
there’s something morning in your dress
two lungs two suns one rise one me one you
Lucas James wants to lead a socially conscious urban lifestyle but also doesn't want to feel like a tryhard whilst singing the blues. This passes for angsty internal conflict nowadays.
Border Patrol
(little fingers
popple through
your keyhole)
(stretch to give
a tickle-tap)
(a pull of purchase)
(think of bleach)
(think of scissors)
(the radio)
(cut-plugged
in a gesture of absence)
(but wake to find
another note
on your pillow)
CAME BY BUT
YOU WERE OUT
popple through
your keyhole)
(stretch to give
a tickle-tap)
(a pull of purchase)
(think of bleach)
(think of scissors)
(the radio)
(cut-plugged
in a gesture of absence)
(but wake to find
another note
on your pillow)
CAME BY BUT
YOU WERE OUT
Magical Realism
Forget beauty.
We were too old,
too long in fangs
and our failings
for velvet coats
or ringlet’s gloss
but showed the claws
we couldn’t sheath.
Our kisses clacked,
exchanged venom
that made lips ache
but didn’t kill.
Didn’t heal us
either, did it?
No sudden WHOOOSH
to reveal some
thinner, inner
us perfected –
just two sad beasts,
still fat with lies
about coping
strategies, cash,
and nothing changed.
So we broke up.
We were too old,
too long in fangs
and our failings
for velvet coats
or ringlet’s gloss
but showed the claws
we couldn’t sheath.
Our kisses clacked,
exchanged venom
that made lips ache
but didn’t kill.
Didn’t heal us
either, did it?
No sudden WHOOOSH
to reveal some
thinner, inner
us perfected –
just two sad beasts,
still fat with lies
about coping
strategies, cash,
and nothing changed.
So we broke up.
